


Take a Look at My Boyfriend

by pinkpatrick



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Cute, FOB, Fluff, High School, High School AU, M/M, Marriage, Mini Fic, Patrick Stumph - Freeform, Peterick, Transboy, Transgender, endgame peterick, fall out boy - Freeform, god smite me down, i just needed some happy trans patrick shit, like one mention of joe lmao, patrick stump - Freeform, patrick x pete, patrickxpete - Freeform, pete x patrick - Freeform, petexpatrick - Freeform, trans boy patrick, transboy patrick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 21:24:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13419933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkpatrick/pseuds/pinkpatrick
Summary: "Maybe you don't have to be Trisha next year.""Maybe you can get your nose out of my ass."





	Take a Look at My Boyfriend

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [All the Young Dudes](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/352074) by donnanthebeast. 



> hi!! this is some gud trans!patrick shit. idk if it's that good but i wanna let u know that this fic switches between settings frequently, and in the sections taking place in the past, i refer to patrick with she/her pronouns, and his birth name that i gave him for this fanfiction. i am trans myself and i know that it is disrespectful to refer to trans people with their deadname and use pronouns they no longer identify with, even if it is referring to the past. i made this decision for the sake of the storyline, and to highlight how different his coming out experience was in my mind. i apologize if this makes anyone uncomfortable. everyone is valid, and in this fic, patrick has been patrick since birth, just not allowed to express it. though he is out to pete at some point, he still goes by trisha, for his own sake. TW: deadnaming.

Patrick's grip on Pete's hand was so tight, his knuckles were stark white, skin pulled tightly around his thin bones. Wentz was far too convinced it was a sign of love, you know? It was really only Patrick's spiking nerves, and if you thought about it, you could practically see his pores dumping sweat out of them like a one of those robot arms on a dump truck. Though it was a thin layer, it was pungent, and he could only handle so much.

"I love you," Pete pushed out, shooting Patrick the stupid, shit-eating grin he had come to adore. 

"You're stupid," he replied dryly. Or rather wetly, if you think about it. Warm, sticky sweat pooled onto his bottom lip, and he let it linger before he had the will to wipe it away. He bit down on it like it was a vat of Big League Chew. "I love a stupid guy, you know that?"

"Oh, you're still into Gabe? Shit, I gotta--"

"Pete!" Patrick's trying his very best to pick his jaw back up off the floor. "Shut up, you're-- shut up."

 

\---

 

Pete and that damn girl. There was something about her that just spoke to him, and it wasn't anything you'd expect from a douchebag, like our own Pete Wentz. When he said something like that to Chris, or, like, Gabe.. They knew what they would see in her. Oh, Pete's talking to the girl with the big boobs, duh. Last week he was talking to the girl with the big ass, and the week before, he was slinging an arm around the girl with the curly, blonde hair. He's probably just trying to win some bet, see if the curtain matches the drapes and she's a firecrotch. It's not like he didn't always have an extra five bucks lying around.

Maybe other people could have predicted it, you know? Like, maybe one of her friends could have tapped her shoulder and pointed upwards when he was sauntering his way across the wood-paneled art room, but maybe they were a little too stunned. Pete Wentz had girls swooning over him left and right, and if he thought he couldn't get this girl, he was mistaken. 

At this exact moment, she would give absolutely anything to be anyone else. Like, being a middle aged librarian with four kids and a deadbeat husband sounded more appealing than being approached by this dude. He wasn't bad, but nothing he heard was good. A connotation meant for the history books, isn't it? She's not ready. Is there really a time where she's prepared for him to speak to her? Most girls, they'll dress up and wait at his locker if they're planning on it, but her? A baggy, grey t-shirt is draped over her doughy, broad shoulders, she's wearing Nike trainers she got from her brother when he outgrew them, and her hair she used as a security blanket was tied in a tight, low ponytail. Which, in case you were wondering, was what she did to hide the fact that she hadn't showered.

Pete sat himself down beside her, with some weird amount of charisma that just radiated comfort, like he thought he was meant to be there, or he'd grown up in that plastic blue chair. "Hey," he sat back, getting a little too comfortable for only being seated a few seconds.

The girl looked up, the tightly wound ponytail failing her needs and allowing tiny baby hairs free. Gross. "Hello," she said carefully, like she was thinking over everything she was about to say. It was like a phone call with your mom, and you don't wanna tell her you were smoking weed, but you're currently high, and so a filter is something you really have to force.

Pete had it in his head that one day he'd be a professional of some sort. He didn't know what, he didn't know when, but he knew he'd have some crazy exclusive club pay him to party, or a weirdly high-class lawyer whose office is on the forty fifth floor of a building that verifies parking. And that's why he jutted his hand out for the girl to shake, during a high school art class. "Are you gonna tell me your name?"

"Are you gonna ask for it, or just, like, expect it?" She crinkled up her nose the way she does when she's proud of herself. That fuckin' shit-eating grin of her father's, but the subtlety, and badassery of her mother. "Trisha, or, like, Trish. Whichever one you hate less, I guess."

 

\---

 

"Yeah, I get it, I'm stupid," Pete shoves Patrick's shoulder, but not really. 'Shoved,' is an exaggeration. He exerts the amount of force it would take to push an empty soda can across concrete. For such a fun-loving pair, the room fell deadly silent. Like, when you can hear the silence, and it's a ringing in your ears.

"Are you sure you wanna do this?" Patrick's voice was really the only thing that cut the silence like it was meant to be cut. Maybe it was the only thing that made sense, like, the only thing that should be able to stop the rest of it all. "We really don't have to if you're not up for it, I mean-- I know you don't wanna look like a pussy or whatever, but, seriously." It was kind of weird, but even now, when he's borderline freaking out, he loved listening to his own voice. Though, if he paid close enough attention, he could hear his heart pumping blood to his head, and he could feel the sweat pouring out of his skin, but he still couldn't tell you why he was nervous.

"Patrick," Pete tried reassuring him, but his sharp voice made it sound like he was gonna put his fist through a wall in a matter of seconds. "You know I want this, okay? This isn't, like, Buffy season six, I love you."

Patrick had noticed Pete's irritation with his hesitance lately, but he didn't care. He was discovering the world, and taking Patrick along with him, and he didn't know if he had anything to lose except Pete. That stupid guy he fell in love with seemed to be the only thing of value he possessed, and it was freaky as shit. Never did he think he'd hear himself say that, never did he think he’d hear himself speaking to Pete for as long as he did. Putting up with him was both a gift and a curse, but most of the time, he couldn’t pinpoint which one was affecting him most at the moment.

 

\---

 

It came as sort of a shock that Pete was speaking to her for more than few weeks, you know. Nobody exactly got it, mostly because nobody wanted to speak to her for more than a few weeks. Well, I guess that's false advertising, isn't it? She had a few friends who linked arms with her and never let go, to the point where she could barely wrestle herself free of them. By the time she pointed that out to herself, she was trying her damndest to wriggle her arms free from their grip.

Out of their grip, and into Pete's jacked fucking arms. They felt like damn grapefruits, and it's not like she sought after his biceps to find out. You'd know for yourself if he gave you hugs like he donates to her on an almost daily basis.

"Trish," he broke the seemingly unbreakable silence with that stupid, gorgeous brash voice of his, and Trish would be lying if she said it didn't make her knees weak. 

She glanced upwards at him, milky white forearm rubbing on the thin sheets of papyrus underneath of it. Algebra filled every crevice and corner, messy handwriting pouring over each square inch. "What?" She deadpanned, quirking a brow.

"Ouch," he held a hand over his heart, the one he regularly, and rather dramatically, claimed was frozen over. Trisha's mannerisms were harsh sometimes, but they were nothing Pete didn't want to get used to. If anything, he wanted to know more about them, that fuckin' weirdo. His common routines and his tricks were thrown out the window when he sat himself next to her, you know. His little quirks he forced to get girls or whoever he wanted were gone, and they were left with just them. Pete and Trish.

Usually, she's sympathetic, but today was a pain in the posterior like no other. Her brother went and used his favoritism to his extreme advantage almost daily, but the real kicker was that yesterday, nobody cared whether or not he took her money. It may have only been around twenty dollars, but saving up is saving up. "Pete, I swear to god, are we gonna study, or are you just gonna dick around?"

It was these no-nonsense wake-up calls like this that kept Pete coming back. "Yeah, yeah, whatever," his stupid, shit-eating grin shone through the wall he usually had pent up. "You got, the, uh--"

"Yeah, I got the answers. I'll send them over, or some shit."

"No. Trisha-" his voice cut into the silence like one of those stupid hot knives in the videos.

Did he really just bang out those two syllables? They may have been low-effort, but the impact was through the damn roof. That's like Trish whipping out 'Peter' in casual conversation. Name one person who goes by Peter with his friends. What was the last thing that guy did, play a fun game of old men, dice, and tiny binoculars? Peter was somebody upper class, somebody who owns a web company, but doesn't know how computers work, and Trisha is the lady from Human Resources who settles all of his harassment accusations. Pete was a charming senior who had girls on his arm wherever he went, and Trish was the girl he wanted there, accompanied by approximately three more.

"Peter," she shot back, voice brash and vulnerable. Like if every damn voice crack ever emitted had an orgy lovechild.

"Whoa, whoa, Trish-- don't get.. I was just gonna say, like, maybe you don't have to be Trish next year." He held his hands up in the air as if he were surrendering. Like holding his hands in the air was equivalent to waving a white flag. Eyes wide like he's Bambi and he just saw his mom die. Or, he's Pete, and he just saw his mom die, no deer required. He looks like if your dad got super scared and offended at the same time, and the beads of sweat are dripping down his forehead in a way that isn't really visible, but you can smell that shit pouring out.

 

\---

 

"I love you, too. Ass." Times change, but Patrick's smart-ass tendencies never did. He wasn't even that much of a smart-ass, he just found a way to fit an insult into every string of words he uttered, and for some reason, Pete was kind of into it.

Pete shoved his shoulder playfully, something he picked up from yours truly. "You know we're doing this for you, yeah? Without you--"

"Without me, you'd be doing this shit with somebody else." He looked Pete dead in the eyes, smile tugging on his lips like an anvil. Maybe it's funny because it's true, and maybe it's not funny, and he's kidding himself, but either way, he'll smile.

"Fuck off," he shot back, cheek in his hand. Like it wasn't true, or something.

"Hey, no, you know I'm right. You'd have everybody lining down the block, like, um-- like Fergie, but male." He kicks Pete's shins from under the thin tabletop. "It's not like I don't see you looking when we go out."

Pete scoffed like he couldn't believe how observant Patrick had become overnight. "To be fair," he starts, only to be interrupted by a paranoid Patrick.

"I don't care, shut up. You look, right, but you're not going and fuckin' their brains out. I reserved that right, don't get- jumpy."

 

\---

 

"Pete, I swear to god, if you tell my mother," Trish warned, holding a finger up in the air like he was in some position of authority. In reality, Pete had every ounce of power Trisha could only hope to gain, but she'd never say it.

Fortunately, Pete's a little dumb, and he didn't use it to his own advantage. "Dude, tell her what? What's the huge deal?" Pete's family was cool. If Trish had a better reputation at school, she might even say that they're chill. You know, if she was exposed to.. Chill people. Does that make sense? Pete's totally chill, doped-up parents, by Trish's standards, were like a godsend. Pete wants dreads? Okay. Pete wants tattoos at sixteen? Lay them on thick, don't take any shortcuts. Research who can do it the way you want, honey. Trish's mother, however, was hyper-aware of keeping her hair below her shoulders.

"You're so-- you know what? Whatever, she's gonna find out, anyway, and.."

"Trisha," Pete's voice sounded warmer, more welcoming than it ever had. He tugged a hand through her freshly cut locks, and looked her in the eyes. He'd done it before, but it never felt like this. She has a boyfriend, okay? And it's not Pete, so, he's just gonna have to.. Stop? Does he stop? Don't stop. "You look fuckin' bangin'," the fact that he didn't even crack a sarcastic smile was unnerving, mostly because he'd use that slang unironically. But she took it how it was meant to be taken. "It's badass, you know how any times I've thought about girls with pixies?"

The hair was nice. Longer on the top, shaved sides, she looked like a repressed emo kid who wasn't allowed to dye her hair anymore, and she was minimally, if at all, interested in the cut. More interested in how it made her feel. It suited her, you know? There's some people who look uncomfortable or unnatural with longer hair. That wasn't really her, though. She seemed hollow with longer hair, and now she was full again, she felt whole, even though she never lost herself in the first place. 

It felt so right, it hurt.

 

\---

 

Once Patricia entered the diner, her smile faded. Patrick had his clammy fingers wrapped around Pete's for dear life, and she knew what was coming, even if she only had a ghost of an idea. Even at these moments, Patrick wouldn't switch lives with a neuro-typical, talented, constantly happy, cisgendered billionaire, if it meant he had this asshole next to him. He used to want to, like, die before he reached the age where he could possibly be embarking on something like this, before he was old enough to. He was hoping for a brain aneurysm at age twenty five, take him out in his prime so he doesn't have to slide along the downwards slope of mortality.

It was moments like these that made him wish he'd never been so cynical. But, you know, the cynicism would come directly back in a few hours.

 

\---

 

Remember that boyfriend? Trisha sure does, but not in a way people usually remember their boyfriends. Oh, they want his eyes, his touch back. She just wants her damn life back. She was so excited at the thought of someone, anyone finding her attractive that she let it take over. Not that she could ever regret it, of course she couldn't. She and Joe's good times were just as potent as their bad times, even if she never felt real attraction. 

Of course, she ran to Pete for support, which was possibly both the best and worst option for her at the moment. Mostly because after around fifteen minutes, Pete had his hand down Trish's pants, and she could feel her small puffs of breath on Pete's skin. Stupid, right? Lips clashing and hearts beating faster than ever. It was sweet, their blood sugar was about to shoot through the roof, both simultaneously contracting cavities and gingivitis. 

 

\---

 

"Mom," Patrick inhaled, like it was the last time he'd ever be able to. Really, if you'd grown up in his house, you might be able to believe it. Military crew cut, hormones, and a boyfriend practically everybody saw coming. 

Speaking of, Pete's dumb ass leant over, and laid a kiss on the top of Patrick's head. Yeah, I guess you can save the sweetness for when we're in public. It took an extreme amount of will to do what he did next, and, really, Pete being there was helping, a shit ton. It felt like the weight on his forearm was unbearable, eternal, and all too real. But he raised up his hand, silver glinting underneath the yellow-tinted light. "We're getting married."


End file.
